also called for attention, as did his strong hands—clenching and releasing anxiously. But even the thickening piece of flesh that hardened between his corded thighs couldn't pull my gaze away from his for very long.
Verin's turquoise eyes glowed and deepened to an even darker shade. Indigo. I knew what that color indicated: a strong emotional response. That put us on the same page; my emotions were jumping off the charts. Despite the powerful feelings that must have been riding him, Verin didn't speak, only gave a satisfied sound as his arms closed around me. Our lips met and everything else faded into a hazy backdrop. I closed my eyes and gave in to that sublime touch. It was gentle but also urgent—desire pulsing through waves of adoration. So much to feel and taste and take. I pulled him closer, water soaking my dress. He lowered me onto the sand. Warm waves lapped at our legs as Verin's body covered mine. I opened to him in every way, my thighs spreading wide and my mind filling with him. My hands slid over his tight ass and urged him closer. My dress washed up around my waist. Only a thin piece of silk separated us. Verin pressed against it, starting to push into me with the fabric. The silk started to slip aside. His sex touched mine. Water rushed around us.
“Get the fuck off my wife,” a voice growled furiously.
Chapter Two
Verin lifted his face from mine, his eyes narrowing at Darcraxis—that would be my husband who was both a god and a shining one. Technically, his and my status as true gods—as opposed to the self-proclaimed gods who are really just aliens—was diminished. We'd cut out most of our magic—literally, cut it out of ourselves—and locked it away, relegating our souls to physical forms that, though immortal, were not as immortal as they'd been previously. That being said, the small pieces of magic we'd left behind had been growing in power. This created a bit of uncertainty over exactly how godly we were. To simplify, I just call us gods.
Darcraxis, God of Darkness and Water, wasn't alone. My other husbands and fiancé stood to either side of him. And they all looked pissed. Livid, actually. Darc stood at the center of the group, the tallest, if not biggest, of the bunch. That's not to say that he was lean. Quite the contrary, Darcraxis had a Henry-Cavill-in-Superman body but Gage, my Griffin mate, was more Schwarzenegger-in-Terminator. Standing beside the fair-skinned, raven-haired Darc, Gage seemed to glow, or perhaps radiate is a better word for it. He looked golden, with tawny skin and hair like a lion's mane. Even his hazel eyes had flecks of gold in them. Griffins are elite warriors and it showed in every line of Gage's furious form. His arms were crossed, the muscles bulging, and he glared back at the Blue Dragon as if hoping for a fight.
On Darc's right stood Banning, as if Darcraxis had planned on being bracketed by blondes. Banning's Blooder-blond hair—a gleaming, glossy gold—now had streaks of starlight in it from drinking Lucifer's blood. Those streaks sparkled in the sunlight, and his emerald eyes glowed. Lovely really, except that his stare was also full of anger and his fangs were bared.
Next to Banning, Declan looked positively friendly but I knew him well enough to see past his smirk to the rage it hid. I could see it in the tightness around his cerulean-violet eyes, the way he held his shining one-sleek body, and even in his auburn hair—braided back as if for battle. Beside Declan stood Torin, looking a lot like Darc, with his sin-black hair, sapphire eyes, and muscular, witch physique. But where Declan only appeared to be calm, Torin actually was. There was more resignation than anger in his gaze. Torin had reacted badly to the RS at first but when he finally came around and saw how much he'd hurt me, he vowed to never be that guy again. Torin wouldn't instantly accept Verin, but he wasn't about to start a fight over him either. At least, not yet.
Finally, there was Slate, who stood on Gage's left. He was dressed in a tailored suit as usual—worn casually without a tie and with the shirt open at the collar—and should have looked completely out of place in my tropical backyard, but Slate had a way of making the world seem as if it were inappropriate, not him. His hands were clasped behind his